


the poison chosen specifically to kill oikawa

by fakecharliebrown



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Attempt at Humor, Attempted Kidnapping, Crack Treated Seriously, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Iwaizumi Hajime Is So Done, M/M, Magic, Oikawa Tooru is Bad at Feelings, Potions, Shapeshifting, also i just wanted to say that i blame caia for enabling this entirely, because this is the stupidest thing ive ever been responsible for, but also the best thing ive ever made, but it goes horribly wrong, hence the entire premise of this fic, its all their fault, the title is misleading nobody dies in this fic, this is at its core an emperors new groove au, wheres the clown emoji when u need it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:27:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25888105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fakecharliebrown/pseuds/fakecharliebrown
Summary: Hanamaki wordlessly grabs a hand mirror, passing it off to Iwaizumi, who lifts it up to reveal that the Tooru sitting in front of him is a—Tooru screams, rearing back from the mirror and overbalancing in the process, landing on his back. He rolls over all too easily, and he isn’t willing to acknowledge that he gets up to his feet—all four of them—rather easily, too. “My face!” he screeches. “My beautiful face! It’s a dog face! I’m—I have—That’s—Dog!”or; the Grand King of the kingdom of Aoba Johsai is turned into a golden retriever, and Iwaizumi is the unfortunate Seijou village representative tasked with returning to him to the palace, preferably in one piece, though his human-ness is dealer's choice.
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 26
Kudos: 108





	the poison chosen specifically to kill oikawa

**Author's Note:**

> the title is a reference to the emperor's new groove, because i watched that movie and when kuzco said one of his brattiest lines i heard it in oikawa's voice (:

So here’s the thing. 

Tooru is a nice person. Really, he is. Because niceness is subjective, and Tooru  _ subjectively  _ thinks he’s a nice person. Which is air-tight logic, no matter what anybody says. 

Tooru is a nice person, which is why he most certainly doesn’t deserve to be  _ here,  _ of all places, sleeping on a shitty cliff overhang in a part of the Seijou forest that he isn’t very familiar with. Aoba Johsai’s palace seems so far away when Tooru is suddenly much closer to the ground than he’s supposed to be, he doesn’t know where is, and, oh, right, he’s a  _ fucking golden retriever.  _

Tooru is a nice person. Tooru doesn’t deserve this. Except—to properly tell this story, Tooru needs to start at the beginning. 

Rewind the tape. 

-

From a young age, Tooru has known several things. 

One: He was born to be king, born to rule over the kingdom of Aoba Johsai and all of its villages. 

Two: Everything he wants, he gets. That’s how it always been, from Tooru’s earliest memory of throwing a tantrum over a broken doll and being offered nine identical versions of that toy within thirty seconds. Not his proudest memory, of course, but still his earliest and the one he would say set the precedent. 

And three: the Aoba Johsai palace is very lonely. The thing about monarchy is that its isolation comes right in the title:  _ mon _ arch. One. Uno. Singular. Solitary. And, of course, only the best tutors get to interact with the heir to the throne, only the prettiest consorts, only the fakest of all the fake people Tooru has ever seen. And he used to have a family, of course, but part of the process of taking the throne involves losing one’s father, and his sister was married off to a neighboring kingdom years ago, long enough that Tooru doesn’t fully remember her. The only picture of her face hangs in the royal gallery, a room Tooru isn’t entirely fond of. He loves looking at himself, of course, but there’s something different about walking through a hall of larger-than-life, serious (seriously  _ dreary,  _ more like) portraits of every ancestor in his lineage. 

Which means, despite all of the servants and tutors and consorts and cooks and advisors, Tooru is ultimately alone on the summit his palace rests upon. But, hey, bright side—fewer people means fewer annoyances. So, clearly, it’s a charmed life. 

Obviously. 

“Your Majesty,” comes a meek voice. Tooru opens one eye, squinting over at the servant standing in the doorway to his chambers from underneath the pillow currently pulled over his head. He’s buried underneath the duvet on his bed; he wouldn’t even be surprised if the servant unfortunately tasked with waking the Grand King can’t see him from where they stand. “It is time to wake up.”

Tooru groans theatrically, yanking the pillow off of his head and sitting up in bed. The duvet pools around his waist, likely wrinkling the silky fabric. Whatever—it’ll be ironed out by the time he comes back to bed this evening. “What time is it?” he asks. 

The servant squeaks, staring at him with a bright flush on their cheeks and their shoulders hiked up to their ears from stress. “I-It’s sunrise, Your Majesty.” 

Tooru raises an eyebrow. “I am awake at sunrise,  _ why?”  _

“It—you—it was specifically requested, Your Majesty,” the servant says, reaching into their robes to pull out a small stack of paper. They rifle through the stack for several moments, in which Tooru’s eyebrow raises higher and his patience thins, until the servant finally produces a paper with a large, teal stamp on the bottom right corner—the sign of Tooru’s official seal. Damn. “On the morn of your eighteenth birthday, you requested to be awoken at sunrise to—uh—it says here you didn’t want to miss a single minute of your birthday.” 

“Right,” Tooru drawls, and he watches with a minor spike of glee as the servant’s face drops and pales. “But, tell me—when did my birthday start?” 

The servant blinks. “Uh.”

“I’m waiting,” Tooru sing-songs, resting his chin in his hand, his elbow propped up on his leg. 

“A-at midnight, Your Highness,” the servant mumbles, their voice small. 

“Right,” Tooru replies, smiling brightly. “And—is it midnight right now?” 

The servant shakes their head wordlessly. 

“So, is it safe to say that I’ve already—how’d you put it—missed more than a minute of my birthday?” Tooru wheedles. He isn’t enjoying the servant’s discomfort, because nice people don’t enjoy things like that, and Tooru is nothing if not a nice person. Honest. 

“I—I guess so, Your Majesty,” the servant tells him, sounding more and more like they’d rather be anywhere else in the world. Which is impossible; according to the bylaws of the Aoba Johsai kingdom, there’s no profession better than serving His Majesty directly. 

Tooru chuckles, his smile widening. The servant now looks as though they wish to cease to exist, rather than just exist  _ elsewhere.  _ “Right,” he says, hitching a higher note of cheerfulness into his voice. “So, then, if I’ve already missed some of my birthday, then wouldn’t it be logical to conclude that you waking me up at sunrise was a  _ complete waste of time?”  _ He’s not yelling, of course, because yelling is unrefined and royalty is never unrefined. Of course. But if his tone sharpens just a little, his volume raises by a few decibels, well—who could blame him? It’s dawn. 

The servant winces. Quiet lingers between the two of them for several moments, the tension thick enough to be cut with a knife. 

Tooru squints, allowing the smile to drop from his face. “What’s your name?” 

The servant’s eyes widen. They say nothing. 

Tooru forces another smile he doesn’t feel. Does  _ anyone  _ feel like smiling at  _ sunrise?  _ “Don’t make me ask again.” 

“Minami,” the servant says finally. “My name is Minami.” 

Tooru smiles wider and claps his hands together, startling the servant into looking up from the floor to blink wide-eyed at him. “Well,  _ Minami,  _ it would seem that I am too awake to fall asleep again, no?”

Minami nods wordlessly, clearly confused. 

Tooru makes a shooing motion with his hands. “Servants don’t get to see the king while he dresses himself, but I’m flattered.”

Minami flushes up to the tips of their ears, stuttering out an apology and closing the door behind them as they flee the room. Tooru drops the smile as soon as the door clicks shut, sighing heavily. Eighteen, huh? Wasn’t he supposed to be married by now?

Oh, well. It’s probably not going to come back to bite him in the behind that he isn’t married yet, even though he’s old enough to take the throne. Which is a stupid bylaw, in Tooru’s opinion; he’s been ruling the kingdom on his own since he was fourteen, thank you very much. Just because he’s eighteen now and can be officially crowned isn’t going to take any of that away. 

Still, Tooru swings his legs to the side and stands up, stretching and arching his back until he hears a satisfying series of pops. He crosses to his wardrobe, reaching for the freshly pressed and folded clothing the servants have set out for him to wear that day. He frowns down at the color scheme, but he pulls it out and puts it on anyway, smoothing down any wrinkles before he moves on to the mirror to fix his hair. It’s getting long, he notes, as he looks in the mirror of his vanity. He picks up his comb, carved of pearl and embellished with silver, and begins to work through the wavy brown locks. Distantly, he hears his father’s voice chastise, _“A true king’s hair is never unruly.”_ He always meant  _ shaggy  _ when he said  _ unruly,  _ and while Tooru’s hair is clearly overgrown, it’s never  _ shaggy.  _ Tooru would die before anybody could describe anything about him as  _ shaggy.  _

And besides, he thinks toward his mind’s annoying little Father-voice, he rather likes it this way. He’s not cutting it to satisfy the memory of a man who isn’t even here to see it; that would just be silly, and silliness is distinctly unrefined.

Once he’s finished getting ready, Tooru stands and crosses to the door to his chambers, pulling it open with little fanfare. There are guards stationed outside the doors, who he nods toward, before he moves on further down the hall in the direction of the throne room. Kingly duties wait for no man, birthday or no. As he passes an advisor in the hall, he says, “Have Minami fired.” 

The advisor chirps out an affirmative and walks away, already scribbling notes on the tablet in their hand. Tooru watches them go for a moment, before he spins on his heel and heads toward the throne room once again. 

“Ah, Your Majesty!” another one of his advisors calls as soon as Tooru passes into the threshold of the throne room. Tooru offers him a smile and a polite nod, approaching his throne to sit down and begin his work. “We have more suitors ready whenever you are!” 

Tooru relaxes into his throne—not slouching, of course, never slouching—and says, “Send them in.”

The advisor nods, hurrying over to a side door attached to the throne room. He makes a waving motion with his hand, ushering a line of ten girls around Tooru’s age into the room. Tooru squints down at them, picking apart each of their features. None of them really  _ look  _ all that appealing, if he’s being honest; they’re pretty enough, sure, but after eighteen years spent on the throne, Tooru has learned who looks fake behind the eyes, putting up falsities because they think it’ll satisfy their petty Grand King. And all of the girls standing in front of him have that particular shine to them, like they’ve been groomed and manufactured for this moment alone. He imagines all of them grew up being told they were the prettiest girl in their family, prettiest in their village, imagines that they lived solely to become a King’s Suitor. He feels a stab of guilt in his gut for what he’s about to do to them. Really, he does. 

He points to the first girl in the line. “That outfit is out of season,” he declares, and she is ushered out of the room immediately. He goes down the line in similar fashion, commenting on hair, shoes, makeup, even parasols. He comes to the last girl, who doesn’t quite measure up to all the ones he’s sent away, and plasters on a sparkling smile. “And what do you have to offer? A great personality?” 

The girl opens her mouth to respond, but Tooru waves a hand and she’s taken out of the room before he ever hears her answer. He is left alone with his advisor, who is frowning with his brows furrowed. 

“Why the long face?” Tooru asks. “How can anybody be anything other than happy on my birthday?” 

Nevermind that Tooru himself isn’t feeling particularly joyful. He never does; he’s just very good at faking it. Faking things is half of being king; if he didn’t know how to act and lie convincingly, he’d never get anywhere. 

The advisor straightens up, the frown melting off his face into a more neutral expression. “Apologies, Your Majesty, I was only thinking of how the kingdom will respond to you and your—uh—”

Tooru narrows his eyes, as if daring the advisor to finish that statement. 

“Your coronation is next weekend, Your Majesty, and you still remain unmarried,” the advisor finishes. Tooru’s intimidation tactics don’t work as well on him; the man had practically raised Tooru. He watched Tooru learn all of his intimidation tactics, for Heaven’s sake. 

Tooru quirks an eyebrow. “And what of it?” 

“An unmarried king will never be able to produce an heir,” the advisor clarifies. “And is therefore unfit to rule over the kingdom of Aoba Johsai. It’s in the bylaws.” 

Tooru frowns. “You know I love those old bylaws,” he says tersely, “but I’ve been ruling the kingdom without incident for four years. Just because  _ you  _ can’t find me any good suitors doesn’t take that away.” 

The advisor stares up at him, and there’s a strange glint in his eyes. It’s like he’s looking at Tooru, at the boy he raised into a man, the prince he raised into a Grand King, and for the first time in eighteen years, he doesn’t recognize the face he’s looking into. The observation doesn’t sit quite right in Tooru’s gut. 

“Of course, Your Majesty,” the advisor finally says, bowing his head. “I will continue looking.” He bows, and then he’s gone, and Tooru is all alone. 

Tooru sighs, and feels some of his own false bravado dissipating. He sags in his throne for less than a second, before he straightens up and forces the exhaustion from his face. He’s tired of this, really, but he also knows that he isn’t good for anything else. He’s spent his whole life working to get here; there isn’t anything else he knows how to do. 

Depressing, but true. 

“Send in my first appointment,” Tooru calls, and he waits a few seconds before the large, ornate doors at the end of the throne room are opened. One man walks through the doors, unaccompanied by any of Tooru’s advisors or guards. Tooru raises an eyebrow, squinting down at him. He’s young, probably Tooru’s age or just a year older, and while he isn’t  _ good-looking,  _ he isn’t exactly hard on the eyes, either. He has a homey sort of feel to him—he must be from the village, Tooru decides. Which one, though, is another question entirely. 

“Name and business,” Tooru lists. 

The man looks up at him. He bows, goes through all of the motions he’s supposed to, but the longer Tooru is under his scrutiny, the more Tooru is starting to feel like this man doesn’t like him. Which is impossible; the Aoba Johsai bylaws state that the Grand King is everybody’s favorite person. 

“Iwaizumi Hajime, Your Majesty,” he says. “I’m the Seijou village representative you requested.” 

“You?” Tooru asks, squinting slightly. Not obviously, of course, because squinting is unrefined. 

Iwaizumi nods. 

Tooru lifts a hand, gesturing vaguely toward the whole of Iwaizumi’s body. “But you’re so young,” he says. “Don’t we have rules about teenagers going to school?” 

A muscle above Iwaizumi’s eyebrow twitches. “I am eighteen, Your Majesty. I don’t require schooling anymore.” 

Tooru hums. “I should make a note to allocate more resources toward—you said you’re from Seijou?—if  _ you’re  _ eighteen. Clearly, we’re experiencing some cases of stunted growth.” 

That little muscle twitches again, this time more like a spasm of his face. For a leader, he doesn’t seem to have a very good poker face. Tooru watches as Iwaizumi takes a deep breath, visibly steeling himself, and he  _ isn’t  _ enjoying this, because nice people don’t enjoy aggravating others. “You Majesty, if I may ask, why did you request a representative from Seijou?” 

“Right,” Tooru says, rising from his throne and stepping down. He snaps his fingers as he walks toward the door. “Walk with me, Iwa-chan.” 

“Iwaizumi,” Iwaizumi corrects.

Tooru waves a hand. “Whatever. In any case, I needed a representative from your village because I was hoping to speak with someone familiar with the terrain.” 

Iwaizumi raises an eyebrow. Tooru leads him into the room next door to the throne room, where a planning table is set up in the middle of the room with a scale model of Seijou on it. “Is that Seijou?” Iwaizumi asks. “What do you need with Seijou’s terrain?”

“My summer home, of course,” Tooru replies. “What’s it like on this hill?” He points to a hill with a little house situated on the top of it, slightly removed from the rest of the village.

“It’s nice,” Iwaizumi grunts. “But go back—what’s this about a summer home?” 

“It gets boring up in this palace all day every day, you know,” Tooru informs him. “Which is why I had the architect come up with this.” He produces a large model of another palace, which he plops unceremoniously onto the hill, effectively shattering the model of the home on its peak. Iwaizumi’s eyes widen. “It’s my birthday gift to me. Self-love is very important, Iwa-chan.”

“There’s no room for a summer home on that hill,” Iwaizumi protests. “People live in that village!”

Tooru blinks. “There are other hills.”

“So why can’t you build your summer home somewhere else?” Iwaizumi challenges. 

Tooru narrows his eyes. “If I didn’t know any better,” he starts, “I might think you were defying your  _ king.  _ As a leader, you should know quite well what is and isn't against the bylaws of the kingdom.”

Iwaizumi crosses his arms over his chest. “And what am I supposed to tell my people?”

“Tell them it’s a dog-eat-dog world, Iwa-chan,” Tooru dismisses. “I couldn’t care less what you tell them as long as they aren’t there when we start construction. They’re  _ your  _ people.” 

“Yeah, well,” Iwaizumi huffs, glaring at Tooru even as a servant comes to usher him out of the palace. “They’re  _ your  _ people, too. Unless you’ve managed to forget, sequestered away up here.” 

The servant tugs him from the room, leaving Tooru alone with his model again. He stares down at the palace, smaller than the one he lives in currently but still rather over-sized, all things considered. He can feel himself deflating the longer he looks at it, can feel the cheeriness bleeding out of him as Iwaizumi’s words echo on a constant loop in Tooru’s mind. 

God, he’s tired. 

“Your Majesty,” a servant says behind him. Tooru stiffens, straightening up. Nobody is ever supposed to see His Majesty slouch. “Your next appointment is here.”

Tooru closes his eyes, taking a deep breath, and willing the happiness back into himself. “Send them in,” he replies. “I’ll be there in a moment.” 

The servant murmurs, “Of course,” and then Tooru is alone again. Tooru’s skin crawls, unable to shake the feeling that he’s being watched, being judged, being ridiculed. 

The feeling that, underneath all of the bravado and all the false niceties, underneath his bright smile and cheerful attitude, he is ultimately not good enough. The feeling that he never will be.

Tooru sighs, plasters on a bright grin, and heads back toward the throne room. The life of a king never stops, not even when the king wants nothing more than to go back to bed. 

-

By the time dinner rolls around, Tooru’s seen a countless amount of his subjects, helping them address all of their issues, in addition to doing whatever his advisors deem important enough that he can’t put it off until the next day. Which is why, when two men walk into the throne room inviting him to dinner, Tooru doesn’t really look into why they appear familiar before he dismisses them with a,  _ I’ll do my best to make an appearance.  _

“Your Majesty,” an advisor says, after Tooru waves out the latest in a long line of villagers requesting resources. Tooru hums and looks to her to see what she needs. “Sirs Washijio and Ushijima are ready for your meal.” 

Tooru blinks. “Who?” 

“They’re from Shiratorizawa, Your Majesty,” the advisor explains. Tooru actively represses a scowl at the mention of his very least favorite trading partner; the people of Shiratorizawa, in Tooru’s opinion, have always acted so entitled and full of themselves when Tooru has to interact with them. Still, he’s already agreed to the meal, so he tightens his smile and stands, gesturing for the advisor to lead the way. 

About halfway to the dining hall, the advisor speaks again, seemingly trying to spark a conversation. “Have you enjoyed your birthday thus far, Your Majesty?” 

Tooru hums. “It’s been exactly the same as any other day,” he replies. 

“Is that good?” the advisor asks, her brow furrowed. 

No, it really isn’t, but Tooru supposes that his cheerful tone might be misleading. In any case, it isn’t proper for a king to share his troubles with those beneath him. “Of course!” Tooru lies. “I love my daily life.” 

The advisor smiles, pulling open the door for Tooru. She doesn’t follow him in. “Glad to hear it, Your Majesty.” 

Tooru smiles and nods, before he spins on his heel and heads for the table. He takes his seat at the head of it, sitting opposite Washijo on the other end. Ushijima is seated to Washijo’s right, his right hand man. 

“Ushijima,” Washijo starts, a smile on his face that doesn’t suit his features. He has one of those faces that are always supposed to be frowning, but that could just be because he is really, very old. “Why don’t we get some drinks for the Grand King?” 

“Oh, we have servants for that,” Tooru says, before Ushijima has even stood up. 

“No, no,” Washijo says again. “I insist. Really.” 

Tooru frowns, as Ushijima stands up and disappears into the kitchen. He returns a moment later, carrying a tray with three glasses. One of them is Tooru’s favorite glass, though it appears to be filled with wine that Tooru isn’t legally allowed to drink. The other two are identical, smaller and shorter than Tooru’s. Ushijima hands Tooru his favorite glass, then distributes the other two to himself and Washijo. Washijo raises his glass. “To another eighteen years,” he toasts. Tooru can’t ignore the sneaking suspicion in his gut that there’s something fishy about this meal, but still he echoes Washijo’s toast and sips his drink. The wine is bitter and unpleasant, but Tooru supposes that might just be what wine tastes like. 

“So,” Washijo starts, once Tooru’s gotten at least halfway through his glass of wine. “I’m afraid I must admit that Ushijima and I had ulterior motives when we came to visit you today.”

“What do you need?” Tooru asks, fighting to keep up his neutral expression. The wine is making his mind foggy in a way he isn’t entirely familiar with, and while he’s heard that alcohol can have negative affects on one’s composure, he didn't think it was supposed to kick in this quickly. 

“Shiartorizawa’s king is ineffective,” Washijo says, his voice gruff and his face darkening. The real him is peeking through, rather than the people-pleasing persona he’s crafted as a royal advisor. Tooru squints, as suddenly his vision blurs and fades out of focus. “But you’ve been leading Aoba Johsai wonderfully for the past—how many years?” 

“Four,” Tooru says, or at least tries to. He isn’t sure he’s actually said anything, because Ushijima echoes his statement before Washijo continues. 

“How would you like to come take the throne of Shiratorizawa?” Washijo asks. “We won’t even require you to marry.” 

Tooru frowns. “Doesn’t Shiratorizawa usually hold an election for their leader?” 

“Yes,” Washijo starts, suddenly looking at Tooru like Tooru has grown another head. His people-pleasing smile is back, tighter than before. His eyes dart over to Ushijima for less than a second before refocusing on Tooru. “But if the current leader is deemed unfit, the royal advisor has permission to choose a new one.”

“And you want me?” Tooru asks. 

“You should’ve come to be Shiratorizawa’s king,” Ushijima says, speaking up for the first time since he’d arrived at the palace. “You are wasted here.” 

“Pal, I was born into this lineage,” Tooru drawls. “I don’t really know what you want me to do.”

Washijo’s smile drops. “So, you’re saying no?” 

“Of course I’m saying no,” Tooru retorts. “I’m not going to  _ abandon  _ my kingdom because a couple of nobodies from a neighboring one think I’m wasted here. Newsflash, buddy, I literally could not care less about what  _ you  _ think of my kingdom.”

Washijo’s smile drops entirely. “I was afraid you’d say something like that. Ushijima, if you would.” 

Ushijima stands, except Tooru’s vision is tunneling and he can’t really see where Ushijima is going—is he walking  _ behind Tooru?  _ What is going on, what are these freaks going to do to him—

-

The next time Tooru opens his eyes, he can’t see anything. He blinks to clear his vision, but everything stays a little blurry. However, he can now tell that he hasn’t gone blind; he’s in a dark, enclosed space, though he can’t really tell which kind or why. 

“Hey, Iwaizumi?” an unfamiliar voice calls. Tooru frowns; where has he heard that name before? 

“What?” another, more familiar voice grunts. Tooru wracks his brain for why he knows that voice, why he recognizes that name. 

“Your bag is moving,” the unfamiliar voice replies. Footsteps approach, before someone makes a vague noise of confusion. 

“Bags don’t move, Hanamaki,” this ‘Iwaizumi’ says. “And that’s not mine.” 

“It came back with you from the palace,” Hanamaki says, sounding like they’re shrugging their shoulders. 

“I don’t know how,” Iwaizumi retorts. “Because it’s  _ not mine.”  _

“Maybe it’d be a good idea to see why it’s moving,” another voice calls, sounding much further away. “Since inanimate objects don’t usually move.” 

“Fuck off,” Iwaizumi snaps, but Tooru feels something tugging at his enclosure before he’s suddenly bathed in light. He looks up, only to see two young men staring down at him with dumbfounded expressions. 

“That’s a dog,” the one with lighter hair points out. 

The other one’s head snaps up to glare at the light-haired one. “No shit, Hanamaki.” 

Another head appears. “Are we getting a dog? Iwaizumi, why didn’t you tell me?” 

“We are  _ not  _ getting a dog,” Iwaizumi huffs. “For the last time, this isn’t my bag _or_ my dog! I don’t know where it came from.” 

Tooru is looking between the three of them as they converse, before it dawns on him that they are looking at  _ him,  _ while talking about the contents of the bag that Tooru is apparently in, except they’re talking about a  _ dog.  _

“I am  _ not a dog!”  _ he exclaims. All three of them jump back as Tooru struggles to his feet, except—is he shorter than usual or is the ceiling in this house just absurdly high and these men unusually tall? 

“Correction,” Hanamaki says after a moment, lifting a finger. “That’s a  _ talking  _ dog.” 

“A demon dog,” the newcomer adds. “Right? Do those exist?” 

Hanamaki cuffs him upside the head. “Of course demon dogs exist, dipshit! Haven’t you ever heard of a hellhound?”

The newcomer nods sagely, stroking his chin. “A good point, a good point. Mayhaps this is a hellhound?”

Both of them turn to Iwaizumi, exchange shit-eating grins, and whine, “Iwaizumi, why didn’t you tell us you were adopting a hellhound?”

Iwaizumi practically growls at them. Tooru is beginning to wonder which of them really resembles the dog, since he wasn’t aware humans could make a noise like that. 

“I am  _ not  _ a dog,” Tooru says again. There’s a weird, warbling gravel to his voice that he doesn’t appreciate. “I am your  _ Grand King,  _ and I will see to it that all of you are arrested for treason if you do not take me home immediately.” 

All of their faces drop. “Treason?” Hanamaki echoes. 

“For what?” the newcomer, whose name Tooru still doesn’t know, asks.

“You all kidnapped me!” Tooru shrieks. “I was in a  _ bag!”  _

Iwaizumi eyes the other two. “You’re seriously not going to even question whether or not this is the Grand King?” 

“What else would it be?” Hanamaki snickers. “A mass hallucination?”

It clicks then, why Iwaizumi is so familiar. Tooru gasps. “I know you!” he cries. “You’re Iwa-chan! The village representative!” 

Hanamaki and the other one snort, stifling laughter. “Iwa-chan?” the newcomer repeats. Iwaizumi shoots them all a heated glare, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“Look, Your Majesty, I don’t know how you ended up like that or how you ended up here, but  _ we  _ didn’t kidnap you,” he says. 

“Ended up like what?” Tooru asks. 

Hanamaki wordlessly grabs a hand mirror, passing it off to Iwaizumi, who lifts it up to reveal that the Tooru sitting in front of him is a—

Tooru screams, rearing back from the mirror and overbalancing in the process, landing on his back. He rolls over all too easily, and he isn’t willing to acknowledge that he gets up to his feet—all  _ four of them— _ rather easily, too. “My  _ face!”  _ he screeches. “My beautiful face! It’s a dog face! I’m—I have—That’s— _ Dog!”  _

The newcomer leans forward, squinting. “Are you  _ crying?  _ Can dogs even cry? Do we know that? Is that a thing?” 

“ _ Of course I’m crying! _ ” Tooru exclaims. “You would be too if you got turned into a dog by a stupid Iwa-chan village representative!” 

“For the last time!” Iwaizumi huffs. “ _ I didn’t turn you into a dog!  _ How the  _ fuck  _ would I even go about turning someone into a dog?”

“Clearly there are ways to do it,” Hanamaki says. “Or none of this would be happening right now.” 

“You aren’t helping,” Iwaizumi hisses. 

Hanamaki snickers. “Who said I was trying to?”

“I want to pet the dog,” the newcomer declares.

“If you touch me I’ll bite your hand off,” Tooru snaps. “Can you children stop bickering and  _ take me home _ already?” 

Iwaizumi sighs. “It’s a day’s walk from here to the palace. I’ll take you tomorrow morning, alright?” 

“Take me  _ now,”  _ Tooru demands. 

“No,” Iwaizumi replies easily. 

“I am your  _ king,”  _ Tooru reminds. 

“Right now, you’re a dog,” Iwaizumi points out. “A shaggy, mangy dog.”

Tooru is stunned speechless, staring at Iwaizumi as he huffs and turns away, walking to somewhere else in the house. Hanamaki and the other one glance between the two of them, offering Tooru quick little bows before they follow Iwaizumi and Tooru is left alone. Tooru watches them all retreat for a few moments, before the situation hits him full force like a truck, and he wants to cry again. That lunkhead with the big eyebrows and dark hair whose name Tooru still doesn’t know had asked a good question when he wondered if dogs could actually cry. If the rest of the day and tomorrow plays out like today already has, Tooru thinks they’ll find out the answer sooner rather than later. 

Tooru pads over to a corner and lays down with a soft huff, resting his head on his paws and refusing to think about the logistics of that. He can hear the three residents of this home conversing quietly elsewhere, thanks to the heightened senses of a dog. 

“What did the king even want to see you for?” Hanamaki asks. 

Iwaizumi grunts. 

“You’re really not gonna tell us?” the lunkhead pipes up. “C’mon, we’re your best friends.” 

Iwaizumi is quiet for a moment, before he lies, “He couldn’t see me. He got swamped, I guess.” 

Hanamaki and the other one don’t respond immediately. 

“That’s bullshit,” the lunkhead spits. 

Hanamaki makes a vague noise of agreement. “Can’t believe that jackass would call you all the way to the palace and then  _ not  _ see you.”

“It’s fine,” Iwaizumi dismisses. “The king’s a busy man.”

“Busy enough to get his ass turned into a dog?” the lunkhead asks, sounding entirely unimpressed.

Tooru sighs and tunes out the rest of their conversation. He wonders why Iwaizumi lied to his friends about their meeting. He  _ had  _ seen Iwaizumi that day, he told him about the summer home and the village—oh. Right. Iwaizumi and his friends  _ live  _ in this village. Of course Iwaizumi isn’t going to want to tell them that the king is evicting them all on short notice. For a moment, Tooru is grateful that Iwaizumi lied; he imagines he’ll be in danger if Hanamaki and the lunkhead find out Tooru is kicking them all out of their homes while also stuck in their house. 

Before long, Tooru is dozing, the quiet of the house lulling him to sleep. Isn’t it  _ good  _ sleep, by any means—he’s lying on the floor for crying out loud—but it’s also the most relaxed Tooru has felt in a very long time. Back home, in the palace, servants are always bustling around at all hours of the day, and when they aren’t, Tooru lies awake thinking about all the things he has to do, all the ways he’ll never be good enough to please that stupid Father-voice he can’t get out of his head. Sometimes, when he’s supposed to be asleep and he is blissfully alone, Tooru wishes that he hadn’t been born the heir. He wishes for a life like Iwaizumi’s or Hanamaki’s or even the lunkhead’s, because none of  _ them  _ have had the stress of ruling an entire kingdom resting on their too-thin shoulders since the tender age of fourteen. 

Tooru is woken by the sound of footsteps returning to the room where he’s fallen asleep, and he blinks open his eyes to see that Hanamaki has entered the room, holding what looks like a blanket of some sort. Based on the darkness in the room, Tooru guesses several hours have passed since he woke up in the bag. Tooru lifts his head.

Hanamaki stops short at the sight of Tooru’s movement. “Fuck,” he mutters. “Did I wake you?”

Tooru says nothing, eyeing him curiously. 

Hanamaki follows his gaze to look down at whatever it is he’s holding. “Oh,” he says. “Wild dogs are really common here, and I was—uh—worried someone might mistake you for a wild dog and try to hurt you so I made you a capelet. Plus, I thought you might be cold.” 

Tooru doesn’t bother to point out that he has a fur coat now. Hanamaki approaches carefully and slowly, as if waiting for Tooru to snap at him or tell him off. When Tooru doesn’t do anything, doesn’t even move, Hanamaki increases his pace and crouches down in front of Tooru, laying the capelet over him and pulling the two strings on either end around Tooru’s neck to tie it. 

He leans back, resting on his heels, but doesn’t straighten up immediately. He pauses, looking like he’s trying to string together his thoughts into a coherent sentence before he asks, “You didn’t really send Iwaizumi away, did you?”

Tooru stares. 

“At the palace,” Hanamaki elaborates. “You met with him, didn’t you?” 

“Yes,” Tooru replies.

“And you told him something bad,” Hanamaki guesses. “So he doesn’t want to tell me or Mattsun because he wants to protect us.”

Tooru says nothing. He doesn’t know what Iwaizumi’s motives are for not telling his friends the truth, and kings don’t go around making guesses. Guessing is—wait for it—unrefined. 

Sometimes Tooru feels like  _ everything  _ is unrefined, short of  _ breathing.  _ And even that’s something he was trained in doing properly. 

Hanamaki reaches out and pats Tooru’s head, and while ordinarily Tooru would’ve snapped at him, tonight Tooru allows it for a brief moment before he pulls away. Hanamaki sighs. 

“This is all pretty fucked, huh?” he asks, quirking a grin.

Tooru wishes he could roll his eyes. 

“What?” Hanamaki asks, in response to Tooru’s prolonged silence. “Is His Majesty too good to speak to a lowly peasant like me?”

“His Majesty doesn’t have anything to say,” Tooru informs him, careful to keep his voice level and free of inflection.

Hanamaki quirks an eyebrow. “I don’t buy that,” he replies. “I’m calling bullshit.”

Tooru says nothing again, even though Hanamaki is ultimately right; he  _ does  _ have thoughts, and there are things he wishes he could say. He just knows that anything he wants to say all falls under the ‘unrefined’ category, and is therefore only allowed to exist in his brain. Sarcasm, swearing, jokes—all of it is for Tooru’s mind only. 

Hanamaki frowns. 

“Everything I could say,” Tooru begins, “would be classified as unrefined, and therefore I cannot say it.” 

Hanamaki’s frown deepens. He raises an eyebrow. “What’s unrefined? Sarcasm? Jokes? Swearing?” 

“Yes,” Tooru tells him. 

Hanamaki wrinkles his nose. “Is  _ fun  _ unrefined, too?” 

Tooru says nothing. Hanamaki sighs and stands up. 

“I should go to bed,” he says. 

“Thank you,” Tooru says, and Hanamaki stiffens for less than a second before he offers Tooru an easy grin. 

“Don’t mention it, Fido,” he teases, and then he’s gone before Tooru’s even done spluttering over the nickname. 

Tooru sobers once he’s alone, and he sighs heavily. He wants to go home, but also—he never wants to go back to that oppressive palace he spends every waking moment in. Hanamaki had been right; the only thing  _ not  _ on the list of unrefined things is fun, and at this point it might as well be. 

Tooru knows he’s lucky to have all that he does, lucky that he was born into power and money and therefore will never spend a single day of his life hungry or unwashed. But he also knows—most people wouldn’t call his lifestyle ‘living’. Surviving maybe, but certainly not living. 

Tooru lowers his head. The capelet Hanamaki had gifted him is warm, warmer than any of the blankets up at the palace. Before Tooru knows it, he’s asleep again.

-

Tooru is woken the next morning by a foot nudging his ribs. He blinks his eyes open, staring blearily around the room, before his gaze comes to rest on none other than Iwaizumi, already dressed and ready. He has a small pack of supplies on his back, as well a piece of bread in his hand. He drops the bread as soon as he sees Tooru awake, grunting, “There’s breakfast.” 

Tooru stares. “You don’t honestly expect me to eat that, do you?” 

“You will if you want to eat,” Iwaizumi retorts, crossing his arms over his chest. Tooru looks up at him, waiting for him to laugh it off or make fun of how gullible Tooru is, but he doesn’t do anything of the sort. Instead, he only raises an eyebrow, expectant. Tooru glances down at the bread. He swallows thickly, pushing his disgust out of mind. It’s fine. He can eat floor-bread for breakfast. He didn’t even see the ant crawling on it a moment ago. 

Slowly, Tooru leans down and starts to eat the bread, feeling increasingly strange about how being a dog has shifted his anatomy. Iwaizumi watches it all with a faint smile on his face, amusement glittering in his eyes in a way that makes Tooru want to bite him in the ass. When Tooru swallows the last vile bite of floor-bread, Iwaizumi crouches down in front of him, a serious expression on his face. He glances over his shoulder, as if scanning for Hanamaki and Mattsun, before he turns back to Tooru. “Alright, here’s the deal,” he says. “Build your summer home somewhere else. Then, and  _ only then,  _ will I take you home.” 

Tooru gapes for less than a second before he laughs. “Why, Iwa-chan, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to  _ barter  _ with me.” 

Iwaizumi isn’t laughing, though. His eyebrow climbs higher on his forehead, his facial expression revealing nothing but the typical stoicism Tooru has come to expect from him. 

Tooru laughs again. If he were human, he imagines his cheeks would hurt from the force of his false grin. “Iwa-chan, come closer.” 

Iwaizumi’s mouth twitches downward into a fleeting frown before his face returns to its neutral expression. He leans down slightly. 

“Closer,” Tooru hums, his voice dripping with sweetness he doesn’t feel. 

Iwaizumi leans a little further. 

Tooru’s dog face is starting to hurt. The force of this smile probably would’ve cracked his human face wide open. “Closer.” 

Iwaizumi, at this point, is less than three inches away from Tooru’s face, their noses practically touching. Tooru hopes his dog nose is cold and uncomfortable as he leans in to touch Iwaizumi’s. He sits in silence for a moment, Iwaizumi watching him with a strange expression on his face, before Tooru hollers, “ _ I don’t make deals with people who are beneath me!”  _

Iwaizumi lurches away, holding his hands over his ears. Tooru sniffs, unapologetic. 

“What the fuck, man?” Iwaizumi demands. “In what world was that necessary?” 

“A world where peasants try to make deals with the Grand King,” Tooru replies, “as if I can’t just put you in prison as soon as we get to the palace.” 

Iwaizumi huffs. “Well, if you’re gonna do that, then why the fuck would I want to take you home? Find your own way back to the palace, I’m through helping you.”

“Fine!” Tooru exclaims, standing and making his way over to the door. “Open the door and I will be out of your stupid, spiky hair for the rest of your life.” 

Iwaizumi scoffs, scowling. “You think  _ my  _ hair’s bad? At least I’m not a fucking dog.” 

Tooru gasps. “You take that back!” 

Iwaizumi opens the door. “No. Get out.”

Tooru wishes he could glare properly, but he can’t, so instead he just huffs and leaves the house. Iwaizumi slams the door behind him, the loud noise grating on Tooru’s newly-sensitive hearing. Tooru glances over his shoulder at the house for a moment, before he shakes his head and turns his eyes forward once more. “Whatever,” he mutters. “I don’t need him. I don’t need anyone. I’m the Grand King! How hard can it possibly be to find my way back to  _ my own palace?”  _

Famous last words, truly. 

-

Not even an hour after Tooru has left Iwaizumi’s home, he’s wandering through the forest outside Seijou in what he hopes is the direction of Aoba Johsai’s palace, but he really doesn’t know and all of the foliage is starting to look the same. There are no landmarks, no signs to help him out here in the forest, and he hasn’t seen a single wild animal since he left, which is really starting to worry him. Not to mention, he can feel eyes watching his every move, but he can’t tell if it’s a stress-induced hallucination or if there really is something out there tracking him. For his own peace of mind, he prays that it’s the former. 

Tooru’s only been eighteen for a day, only officially been the Grand King of Aoba Johsai for twenty-four hours, and already he’s ready to retire. Someone else can take the throne, he’s had enough. 

A twig snaps somewhere behind Tooru, and he freezes. Slowly, he turns his head to see what had made the sound, but he immediately wishes he hadn’t. There’s a bear standing behind him, big and black and  _ carnivorous.  _ And Tooru is a wild dog. A wild dog in a brightly colored capelet, which makes him essentially a wild dog with a homing beacon. Tooru may not be much for nature, but he’s fairly certain that interactions between big black bears and wild dogs don’t typically end well for the wild dog. 

_ I’m going to die,  _ Tooru thinks to himself, and then he immediately breaks out in a dead sprint through the forest. He has no idea where he’s going, but he can hear the bear give chase behind him so he runs faster. A loud thump behind him tells Tooru that the bear has now tried to take a swipe at him with one of its huge, clawed paws, which gets him running so fast that he actually stumbles over his own paws and tumbles to the ground. He’s only down for a second, probably less, but it’s enough for the bear to get a good scratch at him, tearing through the capelet to rake its claws down Tooru’s back. Tooru yelps, ignoring the pain in his back as he continues to run.  _ I’m going to die, I’m going to die, I’m going to die. _

Something soars overhead, and Tooru hears the bear let out a loud roar, but he doesn’t bother to see what’s going on. Something else flies past, as if someone is throwing things, but Tooru is fairly certain he’s alone out here. It isn’t until Iwaizumi jumps out from behind a smattering of trees, kicking Tooru behind him, chucking rocks and letting out the rawest, most guttural roar Tooru has ever heard, that he realizes someone actually  _ had  _ been throwing things. Rocks, to be specific, aimed for the bear’s head. 

Go figure.

The bear runs off not long after Iwaizumi has shown himself, at which time Tooru’s legs give out and he collapses to the forest floor, his eyes wide and unblinking. 

“Fuck,” Iwaizumi mutters, crouching down to inspect Tooru’s injury. He pulls medical supplies out of his bag, but hesitates, as if he isn’t sure how to treat a dog. “Are you okay?” 

Tooru stares at nothing in particular, his mind still reeling. “That was a bear,” he says, his voice hollow.

“Yes,” Iwaizumi agrees, beginning to clean Tooru’s wound. Tooru sucks in a sharp breath at the sting, prompting Iwaizumi to mutter an apology. 

“I just got chased by a bear,” Tooru mumbles. 

Iwaizumi moves on from the cleaning to bandaging. “Yes.” 

“You just saved me from a bear,” Tooru continues. “By throwing  _ rocks.  _ At a  _ bear.”  _

“Yes,” Iwaizumi says again. “Your Majesty, are you alright? Did you hit your head or something?”

He reaches for Tooru’s head, but Tooru snaps at him and pulls out of reach. “I am  _ fine,  _ thank you very much. It’s not unusual for someone to be in shock after almost getting  _ mauled  _ by a  _ bear.”  _

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes, standing up. Tooru struggles to his feet as well, though he really hates being so much shorter than the man.

“None of this would’ve happened if you had just  _ helped me,”  _ Tooru seethes. “How was I supposed to know there are bears out here?”

“I would’ve helped you if you had just agreed to move your summer home,” Iwaizumi retorts. 

Tooru frowns. “What are you even doing out here? I thought you were done helping me.” 

Iwaizumi huffs. “Yeah, well, I just thought that if I left you out here on your own, you’d never make it back to the palace.” His eyes dart down toward Tooru’s wounded back. “Clearly, I was right.”

Tooru huffs and turns away. “Whatever. You told me so, stupid Iwa-chan. You can go home now, I know to look out for bears.” 

“Right, but what about the  _ other  _ bears,” Iwaizumi counters. “Or all the other wild animals out here?” 

“I am either going to die or I’ll make it out of here and have you arrested,” Tooru replies flippantly. He hears that familiar, telltale snap of a twig, and really at this point he isn’t even scared, just  _ annoyed.  _ Seriously? He’s been eighteen for literally only twenty-four hours and now he’s going to get attacked by a bear  _ twice?  _ What are the  _ odds?  _

Iwaizumi slowly turns to look over his shoulder, his face going pale. 

“It’s not a bear, is it?” Tooru asks.

“No,” Iwaizumi confirms. “Wild boars.” 

“A pack of them?” Tooru continues. 

Iwaizumi nods minutely. “Between thirty and fifty.”

Tooru isn’t even surprised. “Bloodthirsty, preparing to charge?”

“Most likely,” Iwaizumi says. 

Tooru takes a deep breath. “Bring it on.” 

And then they’re running.

The boars are quick to give chase, squealing and clamoring as they follow the two of them in their mad dash through the forest. At some point, Iwaizumi reaches down and scoops Tooru into his arms, yelling nonsense about how Tooru was slowing them down, but Tooru is too busy asking any deity that will listen to spare his life. Oh, and Iwaizumi’s, too. 

They continue running with reckless abandon until Iwaizumi suddenly skids to a stop on a cliff overhand with nowhere else to run. At the bottom of the cliff is a deep, wide river, its water the darkest blue Tooru has ever seen. Iwaizumi glances over his shoulder, Tooru following his gaze, only to see the wild boar careening onto the overhang as well, heading directly for the two of them. 

“Can you swim?” Iwaizumi asks. 

“I don’t know!” Tooru retorts. “I’m a dog!” 

Iwaizumi jumps, Tooru still clutched in his arms, and then they’re plummeting toward the surface of the water. The water is frigid and icy, shocking Tooru as soon as they break through the surface. Iwaizumi loses his grip on Tooru when they it the water, leaving Tooru to attempt to paddle his way over to the shore that is  _ so far away.  _

He’s wheezing by the time he makes it onto dry land, dragging himself out of the water and collapsing into a heap by the riverbank. Iwaizumi flops onto the bank a moment later, breathing heavily and staring blankly up at the sky overhead. 

Tooru hacks up a mouthful of water, shooting Iwaizumi the worst glare. “You—are  _ terrible  _ at saving people,” he rasps.

“We’re alive, aren’t we?” Iwaizumi asks, choking on his own breath. 

“ _ Barely!”  _ Tooru retorts. “We just nearly got mauled by a pack of wild boar and then almost  _ drowned  _ because you  _ jumped off a cliff!  _ I mean, seriously, who  _ does that?”  _

“I didn’t hear you offering any other solutions!” Iwaizumi snaps, pushing himself to sit up. “I mean, seriously—you ridicule me endlessly, but let’s face it: You would’ve been fucking  _ bear chow  _ were it not for me, and I’ve yet to hear so much as a thank you!”

“I wouldn’t have been bear chow if you’d just agreed to help me to begin with!” Tooru spits. 

Iwaizumi scowls. “And I would’ve helped you if you just moved your fucking summer home.”

Tooru rolls his eyes. “It always comes back to that with you, doesn’t it? God, grow  _ up.” _

“ _ You’re building a vacation home over my entire fucking village!”  _ Iwaizumi explodes. “ _ I’m  _ not the one of us who needs to grow up!”

Tooru is silent, glaring at him and trying to come up with another retort, but Iwaizumi speaks first. 

“But, you know, it’s like you said, Your Majesty,” he shoots Tooru a shit-eating grin laced with malice. “It’s a dog-eat-dog world. Or, in this case, a  _ bear- _ eat-dog. Or would you prefer wild boar-eat-dog?” 

“I could banish you,” Tooru threatens. 

Iwaizumi shrugs. “Then do it. At least then I wouldn’t have to deal with  _ you  _ as my king.”

“I’m throwing you in the dungeon as soon as I get home,” Tooru spits. 

“You’ll have to find your way back, first,” Iwaizumi retorts. “Good luck with that, dumbass.”

Tooru would raise an eyebrow if he still had them. “I don’t see you leaving.” 

“I’m waiting for the fucking wild boars to move on,” Iwaizumi huffs. “Unlike you, I actually know how to handle myself out here.” 

“Whatever,” Tooru mutters, laying his head on his paws. He’s so  _ tired  _ all of a sudden, where before he’d been filled with energy. Likely fear-induced adrenaline, but still, it’d been nice to not be constantly tired like he normally is. A breeze blows through, reminding Tooru that he and his capelet are both still soaking wet. He hears Iwaziumi set up a fire some feet away, but he doesn’t bother to move. Iwaizumi didn’t start it for him, and they don’t even like each other. Besides—the Grand King doesn’t need anybody but himself. It says so in the bylaws and everything. 

Tooru shivers. He really hates those bylaws. 

-

Tooru isn’t sure how many hours have passed when he wakes from a fitful slumber, still shivering and cold. He’s mostly dry by now, but the wool capelet Hanamaki had given him (that’s now ripped, thanks to stupid bears and their stupid claws) is still damp. As night fell, the temperature dipped, and now Tooru is freezing. 

He sighs, though he doesn’t open his eyes. He just wants to be asleep again. 

“Hey, dipshit,” Iwaizumi suddenly says. Tooru opens his eyes and looks up to see Iwaizumi leaning over him. “Lift your head.” 

Tooru does as told, too tired and confused to really argue. Iwaizumi reaches down and unties the capelet, removing it from around Tooru’s neck. Tooru is about to protest when suddenly Iwaizumi strips off his outer layer and lays it over Tooru, taking the wet capelet with him back to the fireside without another word. He’s left in thinner clothes than before, likely too thin for the current weather, but he shows no signs of chill or discomfort. Tooru stares, as the warmth of the garment seeps into his skin.

“Thank you,” he says. Iwaizumi stiffens, his head whipping around to look at Tooru with wide eyes. 

“Did you just  _ thank me?”  _ he asks, dumbfounded. 

“Of course,” Tooru huffs. “I’m not a mannerless fool, contrary to popular belief. I’m a king, for crying out loud. I’ve probably been trained in more manners and proper behavior than you’ll know in your whole lifetime.”

Iwaizumi grunts, relaxing. “Yeah, and how much of that do you actually use? I was under the impression you just order servants around all day long.” 

Tooru squints. “You don’t know anything abut what being king actually entails, do you?” 

“No,” Iwaizumi agrees. “And, frankly, I don’t think I need to to know that you do it poorly.”

Tooru gazes at him, and he really wants to argue, but—he’s tired. So instead, he just lowers his head back to the ground and mumbles, “Whatever.” 

He doesn’t see the concerned look Iwaizumi shoots his way.

-

The next morning brings bright sunlight that shines directly into Tooru’s eyes, rousing him from his slumber. He sits up and stretches, yawning, before he shakes his head and looks around to see where the previous day had brought him. Oh, right—the riverbank. 

Iwaizumi is sleeping next to the embers of the fire from the night before, so Tooru ignores him in favor of heading to the river to drink some of the water. He’s starting to the get the hang of being a dog, even though he’s still not happy with it. 

“Morning,” Iwaizumi greets a few moments later. Tooru lifts his head to look at him. 

“Good morning, Iwa-chan,” he says. 

Iwaizumi wrinkles his nose, covering a yawn with his fist. “I hate that nickname.”

“I know,” Tooru replies. “Why do you think I use it so much?” 

“Fuck you,” Iwaizumi shoots back, though there really isn’t that much heat behind it. Tooru just hums, wandering back over to the fire. He shakes his head, leaning over to let Iwaizumi’s outer garment slip off of his back onto the ground. 

“Thanks for that,” he says. “You should wash it; you smell.” 

“How do you know that wasn’t just you?” Iwaizumi challenges, picking up the clothing and shaking it out before he slides it back on. He bends down and retrieves Tooru’s capelet, which is now dry, and fastens it around Tooru’s neck once more. “Whatever, let’s just get moving. We have a lot of ground to cover.”

Tooru blinks, cocking his head to the side. “We?” 

Iwaizumi turns to look down at him. “Duh,” he says. “You’ll never make it out of this forest without my help.”

It shouldn’t make Tooru happy to hear those words, shouldn’t make his heart swell with warmth, but. Here he is, happy and warm anyway. And if Tooru inches a tiny bit closer to Iwaizumi as they begin their walk, well—nobody needs to know. 

Hours later, when Tooru can hear both his and Iwaizumi’s stomachs growling, Iwaizumi leads them out of the forest to a small restaurant that, really, has no place being this far removed from civilization and still open for business. Tooru dismisses the logistics of it, though, beginning to realize that virtually nothing makes sense out beyond the Aoba Johsai palace.

“You stay under the table,” Iwaizumi instructs. “Normal dogs don’t sit on benches.” 

“I am  _ not  _ a normal dog,” Tooru retorts, but Iwaizumi just shoves him away. Tooru huffs and lays down on top of Iwaizumi’s feet, hearing him scoff at Tooru’s pettiness but refusing to move. Iwaizumi shifts his legs in an attempt to dislodge Tooru, but Tooru is stubborn and stays put. 

“I hate you,” Iwaizumi hisses. 

“I know,” Tooru chirps. 

They fall silent for several minutes, in which Iwaizumi presumably scans the menu offered. After a short while, he talks briefly to the waitress, then closes the menu and begins to tap out a rhythm-less beat on the tabletop. 

“Don’t quit your day job,” Tooru drawls. “You don’t have a career in music.” 

“Fuck you,” Iwaizumi says automatically, and then the two of them lapse back into silence. It isn’t terrible, if Tooru’s being honest, but he thinks he would still prefer to be back home. Comfortable silences with peasants is not supposed to be something a Grand King indulges himself in. The bylaws don’t have to state it for Tooru to hear that familiar little Father-voice telling him that he’s currently about as far from being a proper king as his father is from being alive. 

“Here you go,” the waitress says, setting what sounds like two plates back onto the table. “Two of the daily specials.”

Iwaizumi thanks her, and then she walks away. Iwaizumi bends down and sets one of the plates in front of Tooru, and Tooru lifts his head only to choke back bile. That is the  _ largest  _ bug Tooru has ever seen, and it’s sitting on a plate like Tooru is supposed to  _ eat it.  _

“Iwa-chan, why?” Tooru asks, his voice weak and wobbly. 

Iwaizumi grunts. “It’s good. Try it.”

“I would honestly rather get mauled by wild boar,” Tooru replies. He lowers his head again, trying very hard to block out the scent of that steamed insect on the plate. This is the worst thing that’s ever happened to him, truly. Iwaizumi hums, picking up the plate and putting it back on the table. 

“Suit yourself.”

Tooru’s almost asleep when he hears a commotion coming from a nearby booth. It sounds as though someone has slammed a fist down on a tabletop, followed by an oddly familiar voice demanding, “How could you get the vials mixed up? We needed a  _ human  _ king, not a golden retriever!” 

Another familiar, more monotonous voice replies, “All of the vials were the same color.” 

“They were all  _ labeled!”  _ the first voice snaps. “Can you not  _ read?” _

There’s a beat of silence. 

The first voice sighs, heavily, long and loud. “Whatever, I’m certain we have something that can turn him back at the palace. Lucky for  _ you,  _ I brought spare vials along. We just need to find that stupid mutt before anyone else does.”

“Good plan,” the second voice replies. 

“Shut it,” the second spits. “The sooner we get that idiot turned back into a human, the sooner we can take him back to Shiratorizawa.”

“But he didn’t agree to come,” the second voice says, sounding troubled. 

“The best part about politics, Ushijima,” the first voice says, sounding like they’re grinning, “is that you don’t  _ really  _ get a say. Oh, and morals are nonexistent.” 

Tooru sits silently, reeling from the information he’s just received. That’s—That’s Ushijima and Washijo, the weird Shiratorizawa guys.  _ They  _ did this to him? So that they could  _ kidnap him and force him to be their new king?  _

Tooru doesn’t swear, but, honestly, what the  _ fuck? _

“We should go before they see you,” Iwaizumi mutters. Tooru nods, standing up underneath the table. He’s quick to follow Iwaizumi out of the restaurant and back into the forest, neither of them speaking for a very long time. 

“How far are we?” Tooru finally asks, after they’ve put significant distance between themselves and the restaurant. 

“About a day’s walk,” Iwaizumi replies. “The boars and the cliff-jumping put a delay in our ETA.”

“Fantastic,” Tooru mutters. 

“That’s pretty fucked, though,” Iwaizumi says. “I mean—those guys turned you into a dog?”

“Apparently,” Tooru agrees. 

“For what?” Iwaizumi asks. 

Tooru huffs. “They want me to be their king.” 

Iwaizumi snickers. “Why? You’re not even good at ruling  _ this  _ kingdom, much less somebody else’s.”

Tooru glares at him. “You’re not very nice, you know that?”

Iwaizumi grunts. “So I’ve been told. But what’s that got to do with anything? I’m just telling the truth.” 

“You’re being rude, is what you’re doing,” Tooru snaps. “You have  _ no idea  _ how hard it is to be king, no idea just how hard I work every day for ungrateful peasants like you who spend their lives slandering my name just because I can’t please everybody.” 

Iwaizumi scowls. “I wouldn’t have to criticize you if you didn’t build summer homes on top of villages without even worrying about the people you’re displacing.”

“I wouldn’t have to build a summer home if that palace wasn’t so  _ suffocating!”  _ Tooru retorts, and he becomes dimly aware that they’ve stopped walking. “Why don’t  _ you  _ try living all alone in a giant palace day in and day out for four years with the pressure of ruling an entire kingdom and knowing that you’ll  _ never  _ be good enough weighing on your shoulders, and then we’ll see what you wouldn’t do to get out of there.”

Iwaizumi blinks, and Tooru frowns as he realizes just how much he’s confessed. 

“Forget it,” Tooru mutters. “Let’s keep going.” 

“No,” Iwaizumi says. “This conversation isn’t over.”

“Yes, it is,” Tooru dismisses. 

“No, it’s  _ not,”  _ Iwaizumi snaps, getting in Tooru’s path and forcing him to stop walking. “I feel like I’m finally starting to understand why you’re such a jackass all the time, you can’t just stop now.”

“I don’t have to tell you anything,” Tooru retorts. “And besides—it’s unrefined for a Grand King to confide in someone beneath him.” 

A muscle above Iwaizumi’s eye twitches. “Why won’t you just  _ talk to me?”  _ he demands. “Why won’t you just drop the fucking pretenses and the haughtiness and all your stupid properness and be  _ yourself?  _ It’s just you and me out here! Who the fuck is gonna judge?” 

“I can’t,” Tooru says, clamming up. He wants to, he really does. He wants  _ someone  _ to understand how miserable being the Grand King really is. But—it’s for that explicit reason that he can’t. “A Grand King abides by all the bylaws and is never unrefined.” 

“The Grand King is also a human being,” Iwaizumi points out. “And right now, I’m pretty sure that I’m looking at a golden retriever.”

Tooru sighs. “Can we just keep moving?” he asks. “Please?”

Iwaizumi squints down at him, before he finally deflates. “Fine,” he says, stepping out of Tooru’s path. “But this isn’t the end of this conversation.”

-

They set up camp on a small cliff-side overhang when night falls, Tooru laying near the fire next to Iwaizumi. Iwaizumi offers him a roasted vegetable he’d made with the fire’s heat, which Tooru accepts gratefully.

“How close do you think they are?” Tooru asks. 

Iwaizumi grunts. “Dunno. It’s stupid to worry about that, anyway.” 

“Maybe,” Tooru agrees, falling silent. 

It’s quiet for a few minutes. Iwaizumi is the one to break the silence. “What’s it like to be king?”

“Lonely,” Tooru replies automatically. 

“Really?” Iwaizumi asks, sounding genuinely surprised. 

“It’s right there in the name,” Tooru tells him. “ _ Mon _ arch. As in,  _ one. _ And besides—part of the process of assuming the throne is watching your father die on it.”

Iwaizumi says nothing. 

Tooru sighs. “I don’t think a fourteen-year-old should ever have to be king,” he confesses. “I don’t think it was fair I had to do that. I hate my father for making me do that.” 

“You hate him for dying?” Iwaizumi asks. 

Tooru exhales a breathy laugh. “Yeah. I guess I do.”

Iwaizumi lowers a hand to Tooru’s back, stroking his fur, and Tooru is too bone-tired to care.

“Is this unrefined?” Iwaizumi asks, his voice soft. 

“Probably,” Tooru replies. “Sometimes I feel like  _ everything’s  _ unrefined.”

Iwaizumi grunts, but he doesn’t say anything, as if waiting for Tooru to elaborate. 

“Sometimes I just really want to swear,” Tooru admits. “I’ve seen a lot of things in my day, Iwa-chan.” 

“So do it,” Iwaizumi says simply. “There’s nobody stopping you. You’re the  _ king.  _ Can’t you do whatever you want?” 

“Yeah, but,” Tooru trails off. “It doesn’t really work like that.”

“Yeah, well, everything’s a little fucked right now,” Iwaizumi replies. “I think the world could forgive you if you just want to swear.”

Tooru looks up at him, and Iwaizumi stands, as if encouraging Tooru to stand as well. Tooru gets to his feet, and approaches the edge of the cliff. The Seijou forest rolls on beneath him, as far as the eye can see. He can’t even spot his palace from here, and it’s that realization that suddenly makes him feel as though he’s been freed. “Fuck!” he screams, as loud as he possibly can. Iwaizumi laughs behind him, big and loud and joyful. “Fuck, fuck,  _ fuck!  _ Shit! Bitch! Ass!”

“Fuck yeah!” Iwaizumi hollers. “You tell ‘em, Your Majesty!”

“Fuck!” Tooru says again. “Fuck, fuck, fucking mother _ fucker!  _ I’m the Grand King! I can do whatever the  _ fuck  _ I want! Fuck you! Fuck this! Fuck off! Fuck!” 

Tooru’s laughing too much to continue at this point, and Iwaizumi is nearly bent double behind him. Their laughter mingles together in the silent night, forming a kind of harmonious melody that Tooru privately thinks he could listen to forever. 

Iwaizumi wipes tears from his eyes, breathing heavily to calm himself down. “How’d that feel, Your Majesty?” 

“More fun than anything I’ve ever done,” Tooru tells him honestly. “And—you can call me Oikawa.” At Iwaizumi’s puzzled look, Tooru says, “There are no kings out here. Only golden retrievers.”

The smile Tooru receives in response almost makes this whole thing worth it.

-

“So, Iwa-chan,” Tooru starts, after they’ve been walking for several hours the next morning. Iwaizumi grunts. “How come you live with Hanamaki and Mattsun?” 

Iwaizumi glances at him out of the corner of his eye, but doesn’t look away from the path in front of them. “Hanamaki and Matsukawa and I were friends in school together, and after we graduated we decided we didn’t really want to live alone.”

“Interesting,” Tooru replies, for lack of anything else to say. Iwaizumi rolls his eyes. 

“What about you?” Iwaizumi asks. “Got any friends up in that palace of yours?” 

“No,” Tooru replies. “I used to have a sister, but she was married off to some other kingdom when I was young.”

“That’s kinda sad,” Iwaizumi says, his bored expression softening just slightly. 

“Yeah, well,” Tooru hums, “such is life.”

Iwaizumi is quiet for a moment, before he asks, “Do you ever wish you weren’t king?” 

_ Yes,  _ Tooru thinks. “No,” he says. 

Iwaizumi shoots him a look. 

“What?” Tooru asks. “When you grow up getting whatever you want whenever you want it and everyone does everything for you, you never learn to do anything for yourself. I can’t  _ not  _ be king, because I can’t be anything else.” 

“Poor, spoiled rich boy,” Iwaizumi drawls. Tooru glares at him, but Iwaizumi chuckles and raises his hands in surrender. He runs his fingers through his hair, tipping his head back to stare at the clouds passing by overhead. “Still, though. If you could do anything, could be anywhere—would you? If it didn’t matter whether or not you were good at it?” 

“Yes,” Tooru says immediately, without even bothering to think about it. 

“Where would you go?” Iwaizumi asks. 

Tooru pauses. “Anywhere,” he says. “Everywhere.”

Iwaizumi pauses, almost seeming to hesitate, but he’s not the type to doubt himself or his words. “And when it came time to settle down?” 

“I don’t know,” Tooru hums. “There’s a nice village with a couple of lunkheads I think I might like to spend the rest of my life with. A couple of lunkheads, and a stupid Iwa-chan.”

Tooru would give all of the kingdom’s gold to keep Iwaizumi smiling like this for the rest of eternity, his eyes so bright and his features so soft and blissful. 

“What about you?” Tooru asks. “If you could do anything and go anywhere, where would you go?” 

Iwaizumi hums, considering his answer. “To be honest, I think I’m already right where I want to be.”

Tooru tries really hard not to read into that, but his heart still leaps anyway. That little Father-voice is criticizing him again, telling him that Grand Kings do not fall in love with stupid Iwa-chan villagers, but Tooru shoves it to the back of his mind and stuffs it in a filing cabinet, silencing it entirely.

And besides, it’s not love. It’s just—he really wants to spend the rest of his life by Iwaizumi’s side, because the past few days he’s spent with Iwaizumi have been filled with more fun and more joy and more  _ everything  _ than the past eighteen years of his life. There’s something about iwaizumi that just makes Tooru feel at peace, at home. 

It’s not love, he thinks. It’s just  _ love _ . 

Wait. 

“Hey, look,” Iwaizumi says suddenly, drawing Tooru out of his internal monologue’s crisis. Tooru follows his gaze, only to see that they’re standing in front of the Aoba Johsai village, barely an hour’s walk from the palace itself. Tooru can’t figure out why that makes his heart sink; he should be happy, shouldn’t he? He’s home. 

Iwaizumi quickens his pace, weaving through the bustling village with Tooru close on his heels. It isn’t until they’ve passed a dark alley—how cliche, really—that Tooru suddenly feels a yanking pressure on the capelet around his neck and he’s tugged back into the alley, Iwaizumi lost to the crowd. Tooru whips around to bite the hand that had grabbed him, only to find that he’s looking up at none other than Washijo and Ushijima. 

Thinking quickly, Tooru shrieks, “ _ Iwa-chan!” _ and dodges as Ushijima reaches to grab him again. Washijo is brandishing a sack and a vial of liquid that Tooru doesn’t really want to drink, grinning behind Ushijima as his plan apparently falls perfectly into place. Except it doesn’t, because at that moment, Iwaizumi skids to a stop at the end of the alley. Tooru launches himself into Iwaizumi’s arms, and the two of them take off in a dead sprint toward—anywhere but there. 

“After them!” Tooru hears Washijo call, and he glances over Iwaizumi’s shoulder to see Ushijima chasing the two of them. 

“Iwa-chan,” Tooru warns. 

“Shut the fuck up,” Iwaizumi spits, increasing his pace. He careens into another alley, in hopes of shaking him, only to find that it’s a dead-end and they’ve cornered themselves. 

Ushijima stands at the end of the alley, Washijo hot on his heels. 

“Ushiwaka,” Tooru calls, still held in Iwaizumi’s arms. “Don’t do this. Let me be king here! There are better kings for Shiratorizawa. You know, probably.” 

“Do it, Ushijima!” Washijo shouts. “He was meant to be  _ our  _ king.” 

“This is fucked,” Iwaizumi mutters. 

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Tooru retorts. “Ushiwaka, please.” 

Ushijima glances over his shoulder at Washijo, who nods. Ushijima begins to advance, when suddenly he hesitates. Then, in what is probably the  _ weirdest  _ turn of events in this whole Tooru-turns-into-a-dog debacle, all of them watch as two tiny people materialize on either of Ushijima’s shoulders. 

The first, with spiky, grey and black hair and yellow eyes, whoops as soon as he’s fully formed. “Hey, hey,  _ hey!”  _ he crows. “What’s going on?” 

The other, lounging on Ushijima’s shoulder like a cat with messy, black hair and sleepy eyes, grins. “Another dilemma, Wakatoshi?” he drawls. “You never seem to stay out of trouble, do you?”

The first man makes a vague noise of protest. “Kuroo, don’t be like that! It’s not his fault he works for a mean old windbag!” 

“The windbag is standing right behind us, Bokuto,” Kuroo says, grinning wickedly. 

Bokuto stiffens, glancing over his shoulder. He offers Washijo a tiny wave and a timid smile, before he turns to Kuroo and hisses, “Why didn’t you  _ stop me?  _ I thought we were bros!” 

“I’m the other half of Wakatoshi’s conscience,” Kuroo replies. “It’s my job to antagonize you.” 

“Mean,” Bokuto pouts. 

“What the fuck,” Tooru mutters, drawing the attention of both Bokuto and Kuroo. 

“Is that a talking dog?” Kuroo asks, raising an eyebrow. 

Bokuto squeals. “A dog! I love dogs! Wakatoshi, do you like dogs?”

“I’m neutral,” Ushijima says. 

“No, seriously,” Tooru says. “What the  _ fuck.”  _

“Why’d you call us here, anyway?” Kuroo asks. “Does it have to do with the talking dog? Please say yes.”

“Should I kidnap the talking dog for the good of my own kingdom or should I leave him here in his home?” Ushijima asks. 

Bokuto and Kuroo blink, stunned speechless for a few moments. 

“Leave him here!” Bokuto cries. “Kidnapping people is wrong! Besides, if he really was meant to be in your country, wouldn’t he have been born there?”

“That’s a fair point,” Ushijima says, nodding and stroking his chin. 

Kuroo stretches, yawning. “Do what you want,” he says. “But know that Washijo’s an old windbag with a stick up his ass, so you should take just about everything he’s ever said with a grain of salt.” 

“So I should  _ not  _ listen to him?” Ushijima asks. “And not kidnap Oikawa?” 

“Yes! Leave me alone!” Tooru cries, because he’s the protagonist of this story and he’s starting to feel very left out. 

“But what about Washijo?” Ushijima says, frowning. “He won’t take no for an answer.”

“Just get rid of him,” Kuroo suggests, inspecting his fingernails. Ushijima glances around, before he sees the traffic outside the alley. 

“That’ll work,” he says, in unison with Bokuto and Kuroo. Tooru and Iwaizumi watch as Ushijima shoves Washijo into traffic, getting jostled across the street by passing carriages and trampled by stampeding villagers, only to come out the other side somehow completely unscathed. Ushijima frowns. He turns to Kuroo. “Doesn’t that usually work?” 

“Well, I’ve done all I could,” Kuroo declares. “You’re on your own now, bud. Good luck with that.” And with that, he disappears. Bokuto waves before he vanishes as well, leaving Tooru feeling like he’d hallucinated that whole exchange. Washijo storms back over to the alley, looking a little beaten up but unharmed. 

“You could’ve been great, Ushijima!” he shouts. “A pity that you wasted so much  _ potential!”  _ He shoves a vial into Ushijima’s mouth, and Tooru watches as, before his eyes, Ushijima is suddenly no longer  _ Ushijima _ , but instead a cow with vaguely Ushijima-like features.

Washijo turns a crazed look on Tooru and Iwaizumi. “Now, it’s time you went where you’re  _ supposed to!”  _ he declares. He begins to advance toward the two of them, his footsteps impossibly loud and echoing in the alley, but a voice cuts him off. 

“I know you’re about to start the fight scene,” Ushijima says. “But, as I’m now a cow, may I be excused?” 

All three of them stare blankly at him until Washijo shakes his head and says, “Fine, whatever. You're dismissed.”

Ushijima bids him a quiet thanks, and then meanders out of the alley to join the flow of traffic. Tooru stares after him for several seconds, dumbfounded, before he shakes his head and refocuses on the problem at hand. His eyes dart down to the bag Washijo at his side, the same bag he produced Ushijima’s cow vial from. Tooru is willing to bet all of the vials are in that bag. He exchanges a glance with Iwaizumi, and can tell that he’s thinking the same thing.

Everything after that happens too quickly for Tooru to properly process, but the gist is this: Iwaizumi throws Tooru into the air in Washijo’s direction, and makes a mad dash to rip Washijo’s bag off of his body, snapping the handle in the process. Tooru falls into Washijo’s arms, who blinks at him in confusion before he drops Tooru, and then Tooru and Iwaizumi are running faster than they ever have. The traffic outside the alley presents a slight issue for them, but still he and Iwaizumi manage to weave their way through, all the while they can hear Washijo yelling after them and cursing them. 

“Which one is it?” Iwaizumi demands, rifling frantically through the bag. 

“How should I know?” Tooru retorts. “I’m not the one who turned someone into a dog!” 

“Neither am I!” Iwaizumi shoots back, grabbing a vial at random and yanking the stopper off with his teeth. He stuffs the vial into Tooru’s mouth, and it takes everything in Tooru’s power to not choke on the potion suddenly flowing down his throat. A funny feeling comes over him, before suddenly he isn’t running but  _ flying,  _ his golden fur replaced with sleek, black feathers. He's been turned into a crow.

“What the fuck,” Tooru says eloquently. 

“Here!” Iwaizumi shouts, shoving another vial into Tooru’s mouth as they skirt around an ox-led cart of produce.

Tooru chugs the potion and waits for the familiar tingling sensation to wash over him before he spits out the bottle, and the next thing he knows he’s back on the ground, this time much smaller than he had been as a dog. 

“A  _ cat?”  _ Iwaizumi cries. “Why would anybody even  _ need  _ to turn someone into a cat?” 

“Why would anybody need to turn someone to an animal at  _ all?”  _ Tooru snaps. “Just give me another one!”

Iwaizumi does as told, and this time Tooru feels himself grow slightly larger, though not by much. 

“Why can’t the old bastard just label his stupid vials?” Iwaizumi exclaims. He bends down and scoops Tooru-the-fox into his arms, juggling both Tooru and the bag of vials. Tooru sticks his snout into the bag and snags a potion at random, spitting it out in Iwaizumi’s face. 

“ _ I’m  _ picking next,” he declares. “You suck at this.” As Iwaizumi wrestles with the stopper, Tooru turns to see where they are. The palace gates are in view, the village left behind. It’s just the three of them on the path at this point, but Tooru’s been ignoring Washijo up to this point. He has more important things to worry about than an old guy running after him while screaming. 

“Here,” Iwaizumi says, holding the vial out for Tooru to drink. Tooru swallows it down in one big gulp. He closes his eyes as he feels the potion working its magic, only opening them again when the sensation fades and Iwaizumi grunts. Tooru looks down at himself and sees...a lot of shaggy, white fur. And hooves. He’s a llama, isn’t he? 

“Not a word, Iwa-chan,” Tooru says, sniffing and holding his head high to preserve the very last shred of dignity he still has. “Just give me the next one.”

Iwaizumi does as told, grunting slightly. Apparently, carrying a llama is as much as his strength will allow. 

Tooru is flying after the next vial. He opens his mouth to say something, but all that comes out is an ear-splitting, hair-raising shriek that he knows all too well. “A  _ seagull?”  _ he cries. “ _ Really?”  _

“Just try the next one!” Iwaizumi says, tossing it up into the air for Tooru to catch. “We’re running out of vials.” 

Tooru glances behind them, at Washijo slowly gaining ground, and then forward, at the very tall and very locked palace gates. “I hope we find it soon,” he mutters. “Bottoms up.” 

Next, he’s an owl. _“Why are there so many fucking birds?”_ he explodes, flapping his arms wildly and losing altitude in the midst of his tantrum. 

“I don’t know!” Iwaizumi tells him. “Here!”

“Are you fucking kidding me,” Tooru says flatly, as he feels the wind ruffling through his eagle feathers. An eagle. A fucking  _ eagle.  _ Also known as, Shiratorizawa’s  _ motherfucking crest animal.  _ “That’s it, I’m done.”

“Not yet!” Iwaizumi calls. 

Tooru takes the offered potion, drinking it. This one tastes slightly familiar, its bitter sting reminding Tooru of something he’s had before, though he can’t place what it is or where he had it. When his feet touch the ground, and he sees golden fur on his body, Tooru nearly weeps with joy. 

“Oh, thank fuck,” he says. “I’m a dog again.” He blinks. “Wait, that’s not right.” 

“There’s only one left!” Iwaizumi says, holding the last vial. He throws the bag back, and Tooru distantly hears Washijo cry out as it hits him in the face. “This has to be the one.”

A hand darts out and grabs the vial before Tooru has the chance to take it from Iwaizumi, and both he and Iwaizumi whip around to see Washijo laughing with a cruel smile on his face. 

“Come with me,” Washijo says, “and I’ll shatter this vial.” 

Iwaizumi raises an eyebrow. “ What kind of incentive is that? Shouldn't it be you  _ won’t  _ shatter the vial?”

Washijo rolls his eyes. “Fine, whatever, I won’t break it. The bottom line is that  _ he—” _ He points to Tooru, who flinches back slightly behind Iwaizumi’s legs “—is coming with  _ me.” _

Iwaizumi levels Washijo with a flat look, then glances down at Tooru. “Do you wanna say it, or should I?” 

“Be my guest,” Tooru replies. 

Iwaizumi smirks. “Alright,” he turns back to Washijo, lifting a finger to beckon him closer. “C’mere. I have something I wanna tell you.” 

Washijo frowns, but takes a tiny step closer. 

“Closer,” Iwaizumi says. 

Another step. 

“Closer,” Iwaizumi continues. “Keep it coming, bucko.” 

There’s barely three centimeters between the two of them when Iwaizumi lifts a hand and says, “That’s good.” 

Washijo furrows his brow. “What did you want to tell me?” 

Iwaizumi leans in, cupping his hand around his mouth as though he’s about to whisper, then screams _ , “He doesn’t make deals with people who are beneath him!”  _

Washijo flinches back, losing his grip on the vial in his hands. Iwaizumi darts forward and grabs it out of the air, shoving it into Tooru’s mouth before the old man can catch his bearings. Tooru swallows the potion, and, less than a second later, he’s human again. Tooru glances at Iwaizumi, and smirks. 

“Why, Iwa-chan,” he drawls. “I had no idea you were so short.” 

Iwaizumi just rolls his eyes. He looks at Washijo, pride and smugness glittering in his eyes. “You lose.” 

Tooru crosses his arms over his chest. “How’s it feel to be a  _ loser,  _ Washijo?” 

“You’ll never be a real king,” Washijo hisses. “You’re  _ nothing  _ without Shiratorizawa.”

“Save it for someone who cares,” Tooru dismisses. “Now, where are those guards? I do believe there’s a dungeon cell with your name on it. Iwa-chan, if you would.” 

“With pleasure,” Iwaizumi replies, stalking forward and grabbing Washijo by the back of the shirt to keep him from running off. 

As the palace gates begin to creak, opening slowly to allow the three of them entry onto the grounds, all Tooru can think is how fucking glad he is that the whole fiasco is  _ over.  _

-

Later that evening, after Tooru has finally managed to wave off the last worried servant or advisor, he and Iwaizumi are alone in his chambers, Tooru flopped on his bed and Iwaizumi sitting on the edge of the mattress. His hand is resting on the blanket, but every once in a while it fidgets like he wants to be doing something with it. 

“You really missed this place, huh?” Iwaizumi asks, gazing around the room with his nose wrinkled just slightly. 

“Of course I did,” Tooru replies, snuggling a little deeper into his pillows. He missed pillows. “I know it might shock you, Iwa-chan, but I’m really not that outdoorsy.” 

Iwaizumi scoffs, rolling his eyes. “You know, between the bear attack and the boar attack, I think I could’ve guessed that.” There’s an odd note in his tone that confuses Tooru. Tooru rolls over to look at him, but Iwaizumi’s face reveals nothing. Tooru sticks his foot out and pokes Iwaizumi. 

“Oi, Iwa-chan,” he calls. “Why the long face? It’s not every day I bring a villager into the Grand King’s chambers, you know.” 

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes again. “I was just waiting,” he says. 

“For what?” Tooru asks, sitting up. Why is Iwaizumi being so weird? 

“To see how you would act once we got back to normal,” Iwaizumi tells him. “For a second there, you actually started to seem like a real person, instead of just an empty-skulled bobble-head with pretty hair.” 

Tooru frowns, furrowing his brows. “What?” 

“You know, the  _ second  _ we got back in here I could  _ see  _ the change,” Iwaizumi continues, his voice hard and bitter. “Your whole posture shifted, like you just can’t help but be an asshole when you’re on your own turf. Were you ever really my friend, or did you just need me to take you home? Was  _ any  _ of what you told me the other night even real?” 

“Of course it was real,” Tooru snaps. “Iwa-chan, what’s your problem? I’m the  _ king.  _ I’m sorry if I have to act like it and do my  _ job;  _ or did you think I acted like a stupid dog all the time?” 

Iwaizumi’s eyes narrow. “Oh, so that’s what you think? That I act like a dog? Mattsun, Makki, me—we all act like  _ dogs?”  _

Tooru raises an eyebrow. “Now what are you on about?”

“You were never ‘acting like a dog,’ Oikawa, you were acting like  _ me!  _ And my  _ friends!”  _ Iwaizumi spits. “Oh, wait, I forgot—I’m only allowed to call you Oukawa when you’re a dog, because that’s the only time it’s acceptable for you to be interacting with me.”

“That is  _ not  _ what I said,” Tooru starts.

“But that’s what you meant,” Iwaizumi retorts. “And even if it isn’t, that’s still how it  _ sounds.  _ And for a king who was supposedly trained to speak properly since birth, there’s no way you ever say things you don’t mean, so.” He stands. “I guess I know how you feel.” 

“Iwa-chan, wait,” Tooru says, scrambling off the bed to grab Iwaizumi’s wrist and keep him from leaving. 

Iwaizumi raises an eyebrow. Tooru flounders; he hadn’t gotten this far. Iwaizumi rolls his eyes and yanks his wrist free, crossing his arms over his chest. “Well?” he demands. 

Tooru hesitates. “I—”

“Answer me this, Your Majesty,” Iwaizumi says. “Are you still going to build your summer home?” 

Tooru says nothing, which is apparently the wrong answer. 

Iwaizumi nods, a bitter laugh escaping his mouth. “We’re done here.”

“Iwa-chan!” Tooru calls, watching as Iwaizumi stalks to the door. His feet are rooted to the ground, leaving him unable to move. “Iwa-chan, wait!” 

“You’re a shitty king and an even shittier person, Your Majesty,” Iwaizumi says. Tooru flinches as he slams the door shut. 

Somehow, his bedroom feels even bigger and emptier than the vastness of the Seijou forest after dark. Tooru shivers, even though there’s no draft here.

-

Thus, Tooru is a nice person. He had been nothing but kind to Iwaizumi and still Iwaizumi treated him so terribly before cutting him off entirely. In fact, Tooru really was the victim throughout the whole fiasco; it’s not like he  _ asked  _ to be turned into a dog. 

Tooru is too nice, really. He did nothing to deserve such—

“Oh, shove a sock in it, will you?” Tooru mutters, cutting off his own internal monologue. “They all  _ read it,  _ they  _ know  _ what happened. Just like they know what a—what a—” He sighs. “There’s no refined way to describe how despicable I really am, is there?” 

Tooru flops back onto his bed, staring up at the ceiling. After Iwaizumi left, everything went back to normal as if the past several days hadn’t even happened. Tooru’s life was—exactly as he left it. So why was returning to it so hard? Why did he want to turn to someone and make a sarcastic remark, or bug someone endlessly, or even just be  _ sitting next to someone? _

Tooru’s life is back to normal,  _ he  _ is back to normal, and he doesn’t have anything to worry about anymore. He should be happy. He should be  _ ecstatic.  _ So, why isn’t he? __

Tooru sighs and throws an arm over his face, covering his eyes.

Distantly, he registers hearing the door open and close, and a servant clears their throat. Tooru turns his head to look at them, not bothering to fix his posture. “What?” 

The servant cowers just slightly, and Tooru isn’t sure why it sends a spike of guilt lancing through his gut. Not a week ago, the sight of something like that would’ve made him laugh. “Your Majesty, we were doing your laundry when we found—um—we aren’t really sure what to do with this,” the servant says, lifting up the capelet Hanamaki had given Tooru. It’s been mended, Tooru notices, and washed. It looks pristine, as though it had never fallen victim to a bear’s claw. The small of Tooru’s back aches just thinking about what had happened to the capelet. 

“Give it to me,” Tooru says, and why does his voice sound hollow? “I’ll take care of it.” 

“Alright,” the servant says, approaching to place the capelet on the bed next to Tooru. They turn to leave, but hesitate in the doorway. “Your Majesty?” 

Tooru doesn’t bother looking up from where he’s started to run his fingertips along the capelet’s soft, wool fabric. “What?” 

“Where did you get that?” 

Tooru pauses. He could tell the truth, but—a small part of him doesn’t want to. “I borrowed it,” he lies. “From one of the villagers.” 

There’s a strangely knowing glint in the servant’s eyes when Tooru looks up at them. “Ah,” they say. “Then, you should probably return it, no?” 

Tooru stares at them, the capelet still resting across his lap. Oddly enough, the servant doesn’t look afraid anymore, just—kind. Have they all looked this nice the whole time? Why didn’t Tooru ever see them this way? “Is the royal architect in right now?” Tooru asks, changing the subject entirely. 

The smallest of smiles spreads across the servant’s lips. “Yes, Your Majesty. Would you like me to get her for you?” 

“Yes, please,” Tooru says. “And—can you block my calendar for the next couple of days?” 

The servant tilts their head to the side. “What for?” 

Tooru turns to look down at the capelet. “There’s something I need to return to somebody.” 

-

Matsukawa is the one who answers the door when Tooru arrives the next morning, his eyes blowing wide at the sight of him. “Your Majesty,” he greets. “What—uh—brings you back here?” 

Tooru forces a people-pleasing smile he knows never fails to charm is recipient. “Hello, Matsukawa. I have an item to return to a member of your household, as well as an urgent matter to discuss with the village representative.” 

Matsukawa blinks. “Right, okay. Do you want to come in?” 

“If it’s not too much trouble,” Tooru replies. Matsukawa steps back and gestures for him to enter, all the while staring at Tooru like he’s sporting dog ears on a human head. 

“Who’s at the door?” Hanamaki hollers from somewhere inside the house. 

“The Grand King,” Matsukawa shouts back. Something clatters, as if Hanamaki dropped whatever he was holding. Hanamaki enters the room a second later, rubbing his ear. 

“Mattsun, I could’ve sworn I heard you say—” He stops short at the sight of Tooru standing in his doorway. “Oh, you really did say the Grand King was here. I thought I was tripping on poison moss or something.” 

Matsukawa turns to him. “Is that even a thing?” 

Hanamaki shrugs. “I dunno, probably. Iwaizumi’s the nature expert here, not me.”

Matsukawa squints at him. “You’re stupid.” 

“So are you,” Hanamaki shoots back. He turns to Tooru. “What can I do for you, Your Majesty? I think Iwaizumi’s somewhere around the back.” 

“Actually,” Tooru says, “I’m here for you, too.”

Matsukawa’s eyes widen again, but Hanamaki just winces. 

“Fuck, what did I do this time?” he asks. “Do they usually send the king to arrest people?” 

Tooru chuckles. “I’m not here to arrest you.” He pulls out the capelet. “I’m here to return this to you. It’s been cleaned and mended by the palace servants, good as new.” He offers it to Hanamaki, but Hanamaki just frowns at it. 

“Why are you returning it?” he asks. “Do you not like it?” 

“No, no,” Tooru replies. “It’s nothing like that. I just simply thought you’d want it back now that I’m not a dog.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Hanamaki retorts. “I  _ gave  _ it to you. It’s a  _ gift.  _ You don’t return a gift unless you hate it and want to tell that person that you hate them.”

“Dude," Matsukawa hisses, “you can’t cal the king stupid. Isn’t that, like, treason?” 

Hanamaki shrugs. “I dunno,” he says. They both turn to Tooru. 

“No,” Tooru says awkwardly. “It’s not treason.”

Hanamaki sticks his tongue out at Matsukawa, before he turns back to Tooru. “Anyway. The capelet’s yours, if you still want it.” 

“Oh,” Tooru says. He pulls the capelet closer to his chest subconsciously. “Thank you.” 

After a few seconds pass, Matsukawa clears his throat. “Anyway,” he says loudly. “You wanted to see Iwaizumi, too, right?” 

Tooru nods. 

Hanamaki points over his shoulder. “He’s back behind the house. Probably throwing shit or chopping wood again. Tread carefully, he’s pissed.” 

Tooru thinks he knows why. Still, he nods to the two of them and says, “Thank you for the warning.” 

Matsukawa walks him to the door, and then Tooru is alone again as he walks around to the back of the house. Sure enough, Iwaizumi is chopping wood, a huge pile beside him that indicates how long he’s been out here. Tooru takes a deep breath before he speaks. 

“Oi, stupid Iwa-chan!” he calls, watching as Iwaizumi’s shoulders tense, the ax still raised over his head and poised to chop the log in front of him. 

Iwaizumi turns around, glaring at him. “What the fuck do you want?” As an afterthought, he tacks on, “Your Majesty.”

“I was just wondering,” Tooru starts, “if you’ve told any of your villagers about my construction plans yet.” 

Iwaziumi’s eyes narrow and he scoffs, turning away again. “No, I haven't.” 

“Good,” Tooru replies. “Don’t.” 

Iwaizumi stiffens again, but Tooru has a feeling it’s for different reasons. “What?” he asks, without turning to look at Tooru.

“I said, 'don’t tell them,'” Tooru replies, waving a hand dismissively. “There’s no reason to freak them out over something that isn’t even going to happen.”

This time, Iwaizumi turns around. “ _ What?”  _

Tooru shrugs, inspecting his fingernails. “Yeah, it turns out I’m not a big fan of the wildlife in these parts. Too many bears. And boars. And probably Ushijima cows, because, let’s be honest—I have no idea where he went.”

“You’re not building your summer home here anymore?” Iwaizumi asks, his voice strangled. 

Tooru raises an eyebrow. “ _ Yes.  _ I was kidding when I called you stupid Iwa-chan, please don’t prove my derogatory nicknames—”

Tooru doesn’t finish the sentence, because suddenly there are lips on his, silencing anything else he was going to say. Tooru’s eyes widen, and he stiffens, but as soon as Iwaizumi starts to pull away, Tooru gets a hold of himself and surges forward, pulling Iwaizumi back into him. 

A very loud wolf-whistle finally separates them, and Tooru glances to his left only to see both Hanamaki and Matsukawa standing in the back door watching them. Iwaizumi’s arms have somehow snaked their way around Tooru’s waist, pulling him in and holding him flesh up against Iwaizumi’s very  _ solid  _ chest. Tooru nearly melts in Iwaizumi’s grip, his face flushed with embarrassment at being caught. 

“Get it, Iwaizumi!” Hanamaki hollers, his hands cupped around his mouth. Matsukawa just wolf whistles again. 

“Sorry about them,” Iwaizumi mutters, his cheeks flushed. “And sorry for kissing you.” 

“Hm,” Tooru hums, hating how content he sounds. “Sorry for kissing you back.” He pauses. “Although, I hope you know what you’re getting into, Iwa-chan—dating a king isn’t exactly a no-strings-attached kind of arrangement.” 

Iwaizumi grins, grabbing the capelet out of Tooru’s hands and draping it over their heads. “Good thing there aren’t any kings up here,” he murmurs, and then he’s kissing Tooru again, and Tooru is very glad he decided to keep that capelet.

-

The night before Tooru’s nineteenth birthday, he’s sitting in front of his vanity, fussing over his hair that is longer than it’s ever been in his life. He knows he should cut it soon, knows he’s really toeing the line of what is acceptable for a king, but he also—doesn’t want to. 

“Hey, Shittykawa,” a voice calls. “Would you stop staring at yourself and come to bed already? You aren’t even that pretty.” 

Tooru turns away from the mirror, silencing the Father-voice criticizing him in the back of his head. He pads over to the bed where Iwaizumi is waiting, laying down underneath the blankets and inserting himself directly into Iwaizumi’s arms. Iwaizumi rolls his eyes, but he leans down and presses a kiss to Tooru’s forehead anyway.

Tooru sighs happily, wrapping his arms around Iwaizumi’s waist. “Fuck,” he mutters.

Iwaizumi grunts. “What’s that for?” 

“Mm,” Tooru hums, “because I can.” 

A grin flickers across Iwaizumi’s face. Tooru leans in and presses a kiss to his lips, sweet and lingering. When he pulls back, Iwaizumi asks, “And that?” 

Tooru grins, burying his nose in the crook of Iwaizumi’s neck. “Because I can.” 

“You’re stupid,” Iwaizumi says, but Tooru can hear the wide smile in his voice. 

“Maybe,”Tooru replies. “But you love me.”

Iwaizumi’s grip tightens around his waist. “Yeah,” he agrees, his tone dripping with fondness. “Worst decision I’ve ever made.”

-

So here’s the thing. 

Tooru is a nice person. Really, he is. Because even though he’d never tell him this, Iwaizumi is probably the best person Tooru has ever met, and Iwaizumi loves Tooru. If someone as good and kind and strong as Iwaizumi loves someone like Tooru, then, clearly, Tooru can’t be half bad. 

And it only took him being turned into a golden retriever to get here. 

Go figure. 

**Author's Note:**

> do u ever regret writing something
> 
> but also like. this is my magnum opus
> 
> i cannot believe i put 16k into the stupidest au ive ever been responsible for, except im also not even surprised bc this is exactly the kind of clownery that is typical of me (: 
> 
> i blame caia for enabling this au, therefore encouraging me to turn my shitty idea into a real fic
> 
> anyway come check me out on tumblr @acedabi or @fake-charliebrown


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